


Alone in the Dark

by ShinSolo



Category: Brand New
Genre: Gen, Imagination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:57:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinSolo/pseuds/ShinSolo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But his favorite fantasy by far, was one involving Steven Morrissey, Johnny Marr, Mike Joyce, and Andy Rourke -- four of the most talented men in the music industry he had ever come across, the four men who composed one of the best bands in the history of his musical existence, The Smiths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Written a long time ago for a friend I no longer have. Go easy on me lol

Jesse had always had a fear of being alone at night.  As a child, he would beg his parents to let him stay up just a little while longer, even promising to clean the living room or hand wash the dishes, with the hope of postponing the inevitable – his parents tucking him into his twin bed and shutting the door behind them as they whispered their goodnights.  And until he was considered too old for such behavior, Jesse would often find himself crawling into bed with one of his sisters on the nights his mother refused to allow him to sleep with her in his parent’s room, or on the couch outside their bedroom door.   In fact, it was for this reason that his parents decided to move Cody into his room even before he was old enough to sleep outside of his crib.

 

However, even after Cody was born, there were still nights in which Jesse would find himself alone – from either colic that kept Cody in bed with their parent’s, sleepovers at other people’s houses, or even the occasional church retreat.   And for some reason, these nights always seemed worse than the ones he remembered spending alone before he had the faint sound of his brother’s breathing to keep him company in the dark; but by then, Jesse was too old and too big to admit his fear to anyone besides his stuffed teddy bear and pillows, and the only relief he could find existed within his own head – his imagination.

 

His earliest imaginations occurred in the form of the ninja turtles, who would sneak into his bedroom after his mother had kissed his cheeks and made sure he had said his prayers.  Michaelangelo would sit in the chair near his window, contently eating an apple, while Donatello, Leonardo, and Raphael would engage in a card game on his braided rug, all the while talking about their daily adventures, what Master Splinter had done this time, and whether or not April would ever seriously consider going out with any of them.

 

Later, he would also imagine Luke Skywalker coming in after a week or two of hard training in some far away galaxy, and almost instantly falling into a deep sleep as soon as he collapsed on top of his brother’s empty bed; Dorian Grey, blankly staring at his reflection in the glass of the window, lost in thought about just how close the reflection he saw would mirror the one kept under lock in key in his attic, his eyes not even seeing the moon that slowly made its way across the night sky; and, even Jesus Christ himself, kneeling at his bedside with just as much fervor as he must have displayed inside the Garden of Gethsemane, while all his apostles sleepily awaited his command -- anything to keep him from feeling so alone.

 

But his favorite fantasy by far, was one involving Steven Morrissey, Johnny Marr, Mike Joyce, and Andy Rourke -- four of the most talented men in the music industry he had ever come across, the four men who composed one of the best bands in the history of his musical existence, The Smiths.

 

At first, he had only imagined them there, much like his previous encounters with Michaelangelo and Bartholomew, but the more the summoned them to him, the more interactive they became.  Marr would leave his chair and sit next to him on the bed, whispering to him in the dark, telling him secrets that Jesse invented inside his head and knew he could never tell.  Joyce would stand up dramatically, abandoning the conversation he would have been having with his friends and look around him as if he’d just been bitten, or heard something preposterous – only to eventually point his finger at Rourke, accusing him of a different thing every time.

 

Then, his imaginary – while real in their own world – friends began organizing.  In addition to materializing in image, they began to materialize with guitars, microphones, and even drums, and songs began to form.  And although at first, their songs were the expected ones, the ones Jesse would fall asleep listening to on repeat, the You’ve got Everything Now, What She Said, or Suffer Little Children, their music eventually progressed into something entirely different, something that Jesse knew the real Smiths had never, and would never, written.   Marr’s guitar shifted ever so slightly in its melody, the drumming seemed to skip a beat, and Morrissey began singing about a canvas shoes soaked right through with rain.  He told Jesse, “I never intended for you to be my friend.”

 

And slowly, their songs began to turn into Jesse’s songs.  Songs he first shared with Garrett in secrecy, after making sure that every light in the room was turned on out of fear of his Morrissey appearing and demanding the rights to the lyrics he had planted inside of Jesse’s head, and then later with Brandon, and Brian, and even Alex.   Songs that started the band that would serve as the precursor to the rest of his life.   Songs that he would be able to hear his own fans singing back to him from the floor in the same way that he had once sang back to Morrissey from the very same floors.

 

Songs that would teach him that there was nothing to fear from being alone, while guaranteeing that he never have to spend another night alone.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Written 03/28/2008.


End file.
